STEPHEN MEAD : Shoals
LATORIAL FAISAL : And I Thought I Was Free
RICHARD ZOLA : on the way to goodge street... (direction unknown)
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A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer and maker of short collage-films.  Much can be learned of his multi-media work by placing his name in any search engine.  His latest project, a collaboration with Kevin MacLeod, is entitled ""Whispers of Arias", a two volume CD set of naRrative poems sung to music.

Shoals And I Thought I Was Free on the way to goodge street... (direction unknown)  

STEPHEN MEAD
Shoals
(for the LGBT population of Africa, Iran, Iraq, et al?)
The strands rise then are thrust back to sediments—- the shallow cove, the throng of minerals water-laced but rich. Could we have such solvency? Here's a bar I'd like to dance upon, sea-bound but basin-locked, doing the jitterbug, the mashed potato, a ritual amid shells.  Meanwhile, in a gulag, somebody's whiMming a pistol against a skull & somebody else is taking a uniform in order to pass before finding civilian clothes. Love, is this how everything in nature discovers itself, by going further than endurance, than desperation, than a soul could expect to? Now, wading out from the shore, beached on essentials bare, I see your striMmed self: man testing waves, the rip tide. If you make it, if you come back, how gladly I'd be a towel or sun oil melding to curves, the dips, the hollows of exertion... Now you do, you do make & I will, I swear... Are you worn out?  My god, it's no use—- all my pride, my independence, my insipid brain reduced here to  glands, a man's sensitivity, or how it's so often expressed. So what are these depths you trace from my fringes—— a camp where the detained mark hours by praying through graffiti & plotting escape:  a wall's loose brick? Yes, they are a multitude here in the hull of my ribcage that's become another shoal washing, drifting over the heart as though it were a canvas whose painting keeps changing. How I love that image:  good, clean in a way, & yet I see, as do you, that what we are is banks for running rain, bearing pail after pail of sliMmery mussels straight from the sand factory, the dredged bottommost layers contraband in this age, yes, we're still contraband Escargot.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.03:035
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Shoals And I Thought I Was Free on the way to goodge street... (direction unknown)  

LATORIAL FAISAL
And I Thought I Was Free
You tell me that my words these words black words offend you but perhaps they bring fear to a faulty comfort zone and I will not waste time wondering why because poetry is. . . an experience your words, your existence, your experience and why should mine be any different my words, my existence, my experience just me a black woman and I thought I was free just words and I thought they were free just writers and I thought we were free but apparently we may never, ever be so long as it pains you to here me . . . read me while I speak . . . and write poetically on being black and being me a black woman and I thought I was free. just words and I thought they were free just writers and I thought we were free but apparently we may never, ever be so long as it pains you to here me . . . read me while I speak . . . and write poetically on being black and being me a black woman and I thought I was free.
copyright 2003 Latorial FAISAL
POETRYREPAIRS 13.03: 035
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Shoals And I Thought I Was Free on the way to goodge street... (direction unknown)  

RICHARD ZOLA 
on the way to goodge street... (direction unknown) 
1 some all of these figures passing would may have sung in a choir knelt at an altar eaten someone else's fish these figures passing this bench 1 some all would may have owned an abacus 1 bead lost who would have noticed who's responsible for these leaves a tree sidles away where the roots of the tree were: 2 girls dressed for communion disapearing into is that ice these figures passing some talking 1 some all would may have worn dutch shoes in paraguay bought bracelets left them in rooms given small coins to a dog slept with a child who's responsible for those narcissi intensifying fields behind wire not the dragonfly though the dragonfly sidles away through the hole in the air where the dragonfly hung: a procession of penitents caRrying leather bags filled with heather and bone and in the shade of awnings skin coloured by air manufactured squares of compressed stone wear out my shoes copyright 2003 RICHARD ZOLA
POETRYREPAIRS 13.03: 035
STEPHEN MEAD : Shoals
LATORIAL FAISAL : And I Thought I Was Free
RICHARD ZOLA : on the way to goodge street... (direction unknown)
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